


We’re all just ghosts of who we used to be

by Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth



Category: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys: National Anthem (Comics)
Genre: Gen, I’ll add tags later maybe?, Not sure how to tag!, Oh yeah! Warning for unreality, umm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27030049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth/pseuds/Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth
Summary: It’s been so long. And so much has changed, so much has stayed the same.
Relationships: Animax | Maxwell &; Kara 100 Percent
Comments: 23
Kudos: 11





	1. Milligram

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory reminder that there’s nearly no canon yet, I am just making shit up!!! :)
> 
> Okay hi! Editing this note in on December ninth; this was written before the third issue came out, and as such, was written with Kara’s deadname. I have edited that out now, and some comments will still reflect her old name; vis pronouns are she/ve in my canon :)

You don’t mean to be unhappy, be ungrateful. But as you finish your third energy drink of the morning, yet to feel the effects of the first, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s _wrong_. 

What were you thinking about? Something’s wrong, all that. Always does feel wrong, you guess it’s just a byproduct of being a byproduct of society, byproduct, side effect, concomitant, you gotta stop reading your thesaurus in an attempt to bore yourself to sleep, why do you have a goddamn thesaurus anyways. 

You shrug, go back to watching Cass Elliot talk about voter registration on a decades-old TV program. Are you registered to vote? Don’t think so. No, something about being ineligible due to past somethings. Oh well. Not like any of the bastards up in Washington give a damn about you one way or the other. 

You’d shot a politician-turned-creature once. 

_What?_

As if you know how to handle a gun, let alone use it on a person (a person? The image in your mind ain’t a person). Still, you feel the recoil in your palms, hear the sizzle of a laser searing holes in someone’s corpse. You wipe your hands on your pants, hoping the texture of the denim, the feeling of something _real_ will snap you out of it, but the phantom feeling remains until you pass out on your couch at 11 am on a Wednesday morning, 48 ounces of caffeinated crap still coursing through your bloodstream.


	2. Red

The goddamn washed-out grayblue of this goddamn cubicle is boring you out of your goddamn mind. How the hell did you end up like this, nothing more than a pretty voice at the end of a phone line, not quite sure what you’re selling or who you’re working for. But the pay’s nearly a dollar above minimum, and it’s been months, and you still haven’t been let go for this reason or that. So really, what’s not to like?

You set down the phone, untangling the cord from where you’d wrapped it around your chest, your wrist, and shuffle off for a smoke break, leaning against the cold brick building and fumbling a cigarette outta your back pocket. The packet’s been squished from being sat on all day, but you couldn’t care less as you idly chew on the filter, watching cars speed past on the highway. 

You’re two smokes down when a faceless, nameless coworker passes by, asks to borrow your lighter. You frown, checking your pockets and coming up empty. You must’ve dropped it, you tell them, the cheerful smell of burning tobacco suggests otherwise. The coworker scoffs, thinking you’re being rude, and you shuffle back inside, grinding the cigarette out under your shiny white shoe. 

The lighter is sitting innocently on your desk when you return. You don’t last another week at B.T. Global Marketing.


	3. Animax

The way the little rubber wrap catches your skin stings more than the needle itself, but you don’t mind either, smile tight as the nurse thanks you for your generosity as he does each month, taping a piece of cotton to the inside of your arm. You shrug your coat on and leave, wondering as you do each month why you bother. You stop at the corner store to pick up the cheapest bleach you can, a few shades lighter than ve prefers, but the economically intelligent decision. You turn around halfway to home and return it, picking up the more expensive, perfect color. 

The door’s locked when you get back, as expected, but so too are the deadbolts. 

“Hey,” you call, quiet, not wanting people in the adjacent units to hear you. “It’s just me. Are you alright?”

No answer. You try again, tapping on the door through the complicated sequences of code you’d agreed upon beforehand, and you hear vir sob from the other side of the door. Shit. 

“Let me in? Please? Whatever it is, I can help, I promise.” Ve doesn’t respond, and you wait, standing in the hallway with your black plastic bag like a prom date spurned, until finally, you hear the series of clicks as ve unlocks the door, bolt after bolt after bolt. You wait, giving vir ample time to leave the room before entering, steps heavy enough to be heard throughout the apartment, but not aggressive enough to scare vir. 

“I’m home.”

Again, no reply. You close the door, locking half the bolts. There’s more, you think, than last time, but you don’t count them. It’ll only upset the both of you. The bleach goes in the hall closet, beside stacks of identical boxes promising bombshell blonde hair. You close the door, wincing when it squeaks, the sound closer to a scream than a rusty hinge.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment below, and come find me on tumblr @wishiwasthemoon-tonight!


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